


White Sheets in the Morning Sun

by agentmoppet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dance Therapy, Depression, M/M, Musician!Draco, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Singer!Draco, Singing Ed Sheeran, Snarky!Draco, Therapy, Therapy journeys for both of them basically, art therapy, depressed!harry, music therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:13:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7757449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentmoppet/pseuds/agentmoppet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy has been missing for three years when he suddenly appears on stage in Hogsmeade's newest cafe. Harry is mesmerised, wanting to know where and how the boy who made all the wrong choices learned to sing like that, and for the first time, he feels something more than the vague fog of nothingness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Sheets in the Morning Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aeriepastel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeriepastel/gifts).



> Written for @lifessor in response to your tumblr prompt. It's a tad different to what I think you intended... more focused on the therapy than the songs, but I hope you enjoy it all the same.

“Harry, it will be good for you – trust me.”

Harry looked up from his book. He'd been sitting there for god knows how long, and he hadn't even opened it. He stared at Hermione blankly, feeling the familiar swell of irritation at how self-righteously she insisted she knew what was best. But it was only a flash, and not strong enough to pierce through the fog of apathy.

“Go without me,” he said, opening his book and looking down at the pages.

What book was this? He tried to read, but although the individual words made sense, the sentences had no meaning.

“No.” Hermione crossed her arms and planted her feet firmly on the ground. “It's been three years since the battle. That's nowhere near enough time to recover – not for any of us, and certainly not for you – but we are going to try. Now, I don't care if you come along and sit in a chair and _drool_ for five hours; you are coming. I don't care if you spend those five hours fueled only by your burgeoning hatred for me; you are coming. I don't care if it's the only thing you do all week that doesn't involve that couch, and you come home and fall straight back into that Harry-shaped pit in the cushions, and pretend that tonight never happened. You. Are. Coming.”

Harry felt an odd twinge in his chest. He knew that he was angry at Hermione – he could recite a multitude of reasons why enforced socialization was patronizing at best, and damaging at worst. But beneath that insistence that this wasn't fair and she should just leave him alone, was the knowledge that she did understand, even if not fully, and that she cared. Despite it all, despite everything he was doing – or not doing – she had apparated into his living room and refused to leave until something changed, even if he hated her for it.

He put the book down, crossed the room, and hugged her. It wasn't much of a hug – even Harry could feel there was something missing – but Hermione brought her arms around him and squeezed him tightly all the same. He heard a small sniff, and broke away to get a jacket before he could see that she was crying.

 

~oOo~

 

True to her word, Hermione didn't force him to engage with anything at all. Ron bought him drinks, nudged him and made the occasional joke when something popped into his mind, but otherwise let him be. Neither of them shot him concerned looks or forced laughter to try and make him join in; they just sat, talking quietly and enjoying their drinks, while the band played in the background.

Slowly, Harry felt himself begin to relax. When they had first walked through the doors, immediately assaulted by noise and the smell of hot food, he had stiffened immediately, feeling his heart begin to race while he was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to vomit. But Hermione had taken his hand and led them through to a corner table, where Harry could sit with his back to the wall, and although the uncomfortable sensations didn't pass, they did fade.

This was alright. He could do this. It would keep Hermione off his case, and, who knows, maybe it would make a difference eventually.

“Did you feel like something in particular for dinner, Harry?” Hermione asked as she looked over the menu. “Or will I just pick something for you?”

Harry looked down at the menu. He tried to focus on what the words said – to imagine how the food would taste – but he just couldn't grasp hold of it all together for long enough.

“I think you'll like the steak,” Hermione said abruptly. “And Ron can always finish it for you, if you can't.”

“Hey,” Ron interjected. “I am not a human rubbish bin.” His stomach growled.

Hermione patted his hand distractedly and gave their orders to the waitress.

“How long has this place been open?” Ron asked after she left with their order.

“Nearly two months,” Hermione said. “It's the only late-night cafe in Hogsmeade, which I guess is why it's so busy even after such a short time. They had the Weird Sisters play at their opening night.”

Ron eyed the band and grimaced. “These guys definitely aren't the Weird Sisters.”

Hermione pulled a face. “No. Well, I think they're nearly done.”

On cue, the crowd clapped politely, and the band left the stage.

“Thank Merlin,” Ron muttered. “I think I'd rather be deaf than listen to that any longer.”

“Hopefully the next one's better.” Hermione adjusted her seat so that she could see the stage properly, the wooden legs scraping along the black, tiled floor in a way that made Harry grip the table tightly to avoid reaching for his wand.

It had been a while since he had reacted so strongly to something like that. It probably had something to do with all the noise and activity around him; it was making him edgy.

For a second, he thought Ron had noticed and was about to say something, but then he realised that Ron wasn't looking at him. Instead, he was staring at the stage with dawning horror. He gave a strangled laugh and began to cough violently.

“Look at the stage,” he gasped between breaths, pointing. “Look! Look who it is!”

Hermione and Harry both looked. Harry heard Hermione draw in a sharp breath, but that was all he was aware of before the world faded away. Of all the people to be on the stage, how could it be him? Harry's mouth fell open, and he realised that he was staring, but he didn't care.

How could _he_ be here? He'd gone missing. No one had known where he had gone, and his parents had refused to say.

Slowly, Harry forced his expression back into something neutral, and lifted his eyes to stare into the unreadable gaze of Draco Malfoy.

He stilled, knowing that Malfoy had seen him, even in the darkened room, and not knowing what that would mean. After several long seconds, Malfoy took the microphone from its stand and sat down on the stool behind him, swinging a guitar up and looping the strap over his neck. Harry stomped down on the strange sensation of hurt inside him; apparently, the moment meant nothing.

Then Malfoy began to sing.

 _Oh, misty eye of the mountain below_  
_Keep careful watch of my brothers' souls_  
 _And should the sky be filled with fire and smoke_

Harry froze, the memory of fire and smoke – of Malfoy clinging tightly to him – filling his mind until there was no room for anything else. He closed his eyes, willing the scorched stone walls to fade away and return him to the cafe where Draco Malfoy was singing soft words like something out of a dream.

 _If this is to end in fire_  
_Then we should all burn together_  
 _Watch the flames climb high into the night_

The walls faded, but the fire swirled and blazed. Harry opened his eyes to see Malfoy staring at him, the audience spellbound and utterly oblivious to the flames consuming the stage, consuming the man who sat there with eyes that saw far too much and refused to leave Harry alone.

He felt Ron and Hermione looking between him and Malfoy, but he couldn't turn to them. He felt powerless to do anything but wait, gripping the table tight and watching the flames lick over Malfoy's face.

_And if we should die tonight  
Then we should all die together _

The Fiendfyre roared and spread, taking over the cafe. He had to get out. He had to get everyone out. He had to save them all, but he was frozen and couldn't move.

 _And if the night is burning_  
_I will cover my eyes_  
 _For if the dark returns_  
 _Then my brothers will die_

And then something changed. Something shifted inside him, and the words turned and twisted until it was the gentle melody he heard, not the meaning, and the meaning had changed – had twisted and turned – as well. The flames died away.

The calm lilt of Malfoy's voice washed over him as the final words of the song were sung, and the audience burst into enthusiastic applause. Malfoy smiled, and Harry thought he had never seen a stranger sight.

He remained still and watchful as Malfoy kept singing, each song something new that Harry had never heard before. Where had Malfoy found this music? Had he written it? It was like nothing that ever played on the wireless.

When it was over, he found himself applauding with the rest of them, ignoring the shocked looks from his friends, and never once taking his eyes away from Malfoy's face.

After a moment, the corners of Malfoy's mouth twitched, and although it was only the barest of movements, Harry knew he was smiling.

“Thank you,” Malfoy said, standing up and returning the microphone to its stand. His voice was oddly soft and mellow, like the songs. Harry wondered if any of his acidic nature had survived the last three years, wherever he had been hiding. “I'll be back next week. Enjoy your dinner.”

As soon as Malfoy left the stage, Harry stood up, shoving past Ron and making a bee-line straight for the staff door. Malfoy looked up and paused for a moment, but before Harry could reach him, he shook his head slightly and left, shutting the door behind him.

Harry made an exasperated noise and reached for the handle, only to realise it had disappeared. Harry stared in disbelief before smacking his palm on the door.

“I just want to talk to you,” he said through the wood.

The noise in the cafe continued on behind him, no one even noticing that he was talking to a door. He knew that Malfoy was listening; he could hear it in the silence.

“You sang really well.” Harry tried again, his voice choking a little on the compliment. “I just want to-” he trailed off, not knowing how to finish that sentence. What did he want? To ask Malfoy if he still felt the hot lick of flames across his skin when he closed his eyes? To ask him if he could still hear his friend's final screams and smell-

He turned and left, willing his mind to shut down, and the brief, unwelcome spate of energy to fade.

Ron and Hermione were watching him with strange expressions when he returned.

“How are you feeling?” Hermione asked gently, the question eliciting a spark of anger that Harry quickly dismissed.

“For a second there, you looked like your old-” Ron began, his face incredulous, but he stopped at a look from Hermione.

“I'm fine,” Harry said, looking down at his half-eaten steak and chips and pushing it away.

 

~oOo~

 

Harry was surprised to learn that a whole week had passed when Hermione turned up again.

“Isn't it Tuesday?” he asked, looking at the calendar.

Hermione shook her head. “I sent Molly's pies over on Tuesday,” she said, opening the curtains.

With a flick of her wand, the room was filled with the sudden scent of lavender. She sniffed the air, and then gave a small nod of satisfaction.

“Have you eaten them?” she asked, giving a few more flicks of her wand so that the yellow cushions on the couch suddenly plumped up, and the dust fled from the red carpet in front of the fire with a small _puff_.

Harry frowned. “I think so.”

Kreacher apparated into the room, the crack making Harry jump and his heart race.

“Master Potter has been eating the pie for dinner, and a nice soup for lunch,” Kreacher said with a bow. He gave a sly glance at Harry before shuffling slowly over to Hermione and handing her a piece of parchment. “He has been commenting on these foods, Mistress Granger, and Kreacher has been hiding his clothing in new locations so that Master Potter must go for a walk to find them.”

Hermione gave a very un-Hermione-like snort, and Harry blinked at Kreacher in surprise.

“Is that why my t-shirt was behind the fridge?” Harry asked slowly. He narrowed his eyes. “You deliberately spilled my soup on me so I'd have to shower.”

Kreacher looked up at the ceiling and spoke airily. “Kreacher is not having the faintest idea what Master Potter is talking about. Kreacher is old and frail; he needs no excuse to spill Master's food.” Kreacher's expression grew suddenly tight, a shadow crawling across his face. “Many a time Kreacher has spilled soup on Master Regulus, oh yes.” His voice lowered. “Many a time Master Regulus' clothing was hidden.”

Hermione and Harry both jumped when Kreacher suddenly disappeared with a loud crack. They stared at the spot where he had been for several seconds before turning to each other.

“Well,” Harry said slowly.

Hermione cleared her throat, glancing down at the list in her hand. “I guess you liked these foods this week, so I'll make sure Molly makes something similar again.” She pocketed the list and held up her hand to stall Harry's protests. “You're not putting any one out by letting us help you,” she said firmly. “And I think it does Molly good, to feel like she's making a difference. She'll be thrilled to know you enjoyed the lemon slice.”

Harry couldn't remember eating any lemon slice, but he bit down on his protests and nodded slowly. He stood up and brushed his clothing down, trying to get the crinkles out. Hermione waved her wand, smoothing the clothing instantly, and he shot her a wry glance.

“Thanks,” he said. “So, back to The Young Boar?”

Hermione looked up sharply. “You want to go back there?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral. “I thought we'd try somewhere else, tonight.”

Harry shrugged. “I don't mind.”

Hermione stared at him a few moments more before she took his arm, ready to Apparate. “No, I think you're right. The Young Boar is a good idea.”

As Harry felt the uncomfortable pull of apparation, he smiled.

 

~oOo~

 

They had to sit through three tone-deaf singers and one out-of-time drummer before Malfoy finally came on.

“I like the _idea_ of an open mic night,” Ron began, before Hermione nudged him to be quiet.

They fell silent as Malfoy began to sing, his fingers moving lazily across the frets of his guitar.

_Loving can hurt, loving can hurt sometimes._

_But it's the only thing that I know._

Harry frowned, unable to reconcile the nature of the words with what he knew of Malfoy. Malfoy had never struck him as someone romantic, although, of course, he may not be singing about romantic love. Or, maybe he didn't write the song after all, and he simply liked the melody.

_Loving can heal, loving can mend your soul._

_And it's the only thing that I know, know._

Now he sounded like Dumbledore. Harry grabbed fistfuls of his jacket to keep his hands from doing something on their own. What, he wasn't sure, but he had to be still or something would go wrong, he knew that much. Malfoy's eyes met his.

_I swear it will get easier._

“Okay, what the fuck, Malfoy?” Harry growled, his voice low but still loud enough for Ron and Hermione to hear.

They looked at him, startled.

“What's happened?” Ron asked tentatively, looking between him and Malfoy. “Did he... did he curse you?” He ran his eyes over Harry, alarmed.

“No,” Harry said through gritted teeth. “But I don't know what he's playing at. He's heard about me, how I am. I don't know how. He's doing this deliberately.”

Hermione looked concerned. “I'm not sure that-” she began, but Harry cut her off.

“Just listen to him,” he said. “Listen to the words he's singing. He won't stop staring at me.”

“Well that's nothing new,” Ron said quietly, but Harry ignored him.

When Malfoy finished, to the roaring admiration of the seated listeners, and took a bow, Harry immediately got up, ready to cut him off at the side door.

But Malfoy was quicker. He slipped through the door and slammed it shut behind him, a triumphant smirk on his face.

Harry reached for the handle, but again it disappeared. He swore loudly and searched around for another door. Spying one behind the bar, he pushed his way through the people waiting to be served, cast a quick Notice-me-not charm, jumped over the counter, and walked through the door and into the narrow corridor behind it a second before Malfoy reached him.

Malfoy stumbled to a halt, his face contorting into a mix of rage and surprise that a long time ago would have made Harry laugh.

“Caught you,” Harry said flatly.

“Should have known your pigheadedness knows no bounds,” Malfoy sneered, resting his guitar against the wall so that he could fold his arms and take a step back. He ran his eyes up and down Harry, scrutinizing his jeans and cotton shirt. “You look like shit.”

“Don't we all,” Harry said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Malfoy made a huffing noise that could have been reluctant agreement. “Some more than others,” he said pointedly. “So, what do you want, Potter? Come to give me the third degree about where I disappeared to after the war? Wondering what _evil plans_ I could have cooked up in my time away? I've got a news flash for you, Potter: it's none of your business.”

Harry shrugged. He decided not to ask Malfoy if he had been directing the songs at Harry; he didn't want to look like an idiot if he was wrong. “Actually, I wanted to ask you: why singing? I've never heard you sing before. You're really good at it.”

Malfoy stared at him, one eyebrow raised. He waited several seconds before speaking. “Merlin, you're serious, aren't you?” He rolled his eyes and addressed the ceiling. “Ten years, and _now_ he wants to chat.” He picked up his guitar and jerked his head toward the stairs at the end of the corridor. “You're obviously not going to leave me alone, so we'd better get comfortable, and then I'll decide if I want to file a restraining order.”

“I've got to let Ron and Hermione know,” Harry began hesitantly as Malfoy strode off down the corridor.

Malfoy waved a hand impatiently. “Just send your little Patronus scampering off and say you've apparated somewhere. I don't want them following you back in here and grilling me to make sure I look after their precious Savior.”

Harry frowned. “No, I'll tell them. I'll just be a minute.” He ran off before Malfoy could stop him.

When he opened the main door, the two of them looked up with mixed expressions of relief and wariness. He crossed the floor quickly and knelt down to speak with them.

“I'm going to stay behind with Malfoy for a bit,” he said, ignoring the look they gave each other. “I want to talk to him.”

“Why?” Ron asked, trying to sound casual, the hurt tone coming through all the same.

Harry shrugged. “I don't know, to be honest,” he admitted, turning to look at Hermione. “But don't worry – he's not going to hex me. Leave without me; I'll apparate home when I'm done.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “If you're sure.”

Harry forced a smile and left the two of them sitting there before hurrying back to Malfoy. To his surprise, Malfoy was still standing where Harry had left him, leaning against the wall and watching Harry with a small frown.

“You can't do it, can you?” Malfoy asked when Harry was close enough to hear.

Harry stilled. “Do what?”

“Cast a Patronus – you can't do it anymore.”

Harry's eyes widened, but Malfoy was neither sneering nor laughing. He seemed to be merely pointing out a fact.

“No,” Harry said shortly. “I can't.”

Malfoy nodded slowly, before picking up his guitar again and leading the way. “That explains a lot.”

Not sure what to make of that, Harry followed him up the stairs. There were several rooms off the landing when they reached the second floor, and Malfoy led him down the corridor to the one at the very end. Harry was surprised that Malfoy would deign to live anywhere that was preceded by a carpet so scuffed and threadbare, but he supposed they had all changed.

Any last perceptions he was holding of Malfoy as a spoiled manor child disappeared as soon as Malfoy opened the door.

“It's very...” Harry said slowly, stepping through, “clean.”

Malfoy smirked. “Yes, I find it's particularly difficult to get dirt on the furniture when there isn't any.” He gestured to one of two cushions sitting in front of a coffee table made from some sort of dark wood. “Feel free to transfigure it into whatever you like. Mother always creates an elaborate chaise, just to make a point.” He grinned suddenly, waving his wand so that a shiny teapot and two mugs flew through the air and onto the table “Last time she did it, I got rid of the dresser.”

Harry stared at Malfoy, unable to look away from the light-hearted grin on his face, so bizarrely like Fred or George that he would swear this was all a dream. Slowly, to his own surprise, he began to laugh. It sounded raw and harsh to his ears, but it felt warm somewhere deep inside him.

Malfoy settled down on one of the cushions, and Harry followed suit.

“I really would have thought you would want to be surrounded by more-” Harry paused, “luxury.”

“Anything styled from the late 11th century makes me think of Voldemort. Do you take sugar?”

Malfoy held up the sugar bowl, eyebrows raised politely while Harry struggled to remember how to breathe. Finally, he nodded.

“Two, I assume,” Malfoy said, lumping two heaped teaspoons into one of the mugs and sending it toward Harry with a flick of his wrist, “judging by the copious mouthfuls you would always consume of that disgustingly rich treacle tart.”

Harry took the mug and held it in his hands, enjoying the warmth. “What did you mean 'that explains a lot',” he asked after a silence.

Malfoy pursed his lips, taking a sip of his tea and remaining quiet.

“How did you know?” Harry insisted. “Where did you hear that I-” He couldn't say it.

“Relax, Potter,” Malfoy said quietly. “I didn't hear it anywhere. I've become somewhat used to observing a wizard's aura. Yours is murky and fragmented. I'm beginning to understand why, that's all.”

Harry stared down at his tea, watching the swirls of vapor rise and disappear. “That's why you were watching me.”

Malfoy nodded, looking slightly uncomfortable, but choosing not to elaborate.

Harry sipped his tea; it was perfect. A strange sensation swirled and shifted inside him, piercing through the numbness. If he had been asked to guess where he would be when he first remembered how it felt to be content, he would not have said sitting on the floor with Draco Malfoy, in a room lit by a single candle and furnished only with a coffee table that Harry suspected had once been a crate.

He tapped on the side of the coffee table. It creaked.

Malfoy gave a wry grin. “It was a concession,” he admitted. “So that she stopped visiting every week.”

Harry nodded, while Malfoy leaned back against the wall and made himself comfortable. “You wanted to know why I started singing?”

Harry looked up, drawn by the wistful tone of Malfoy's voice and the way his face was all smooth lines and gentle shadows in the candlelight.

Malfoy took a sip. “I like it,” he said. “Story's over; good to see you, Potter.”

Harry blinked in alarm before Malfoy laughed, carefree and relaxed. It was an unusual sound, but it suited him.

“I'm joking. I started singing because, after the war, I left the wizarding world and went to live with Muggles.”

“I thought you were in France,” Harry said stupidly. “That's where all the rumours said you were.”

Malfoy shifted on the cushion and shot Harry a look that was a shadow of his old withering glares. “That's where I wanted everyone to think I was, so that they didn't come searching for me in Australia.”

Harry's eyebrows raised. “You were in Australia? With Muggles? Why?”

“I'm getting there, if you can be quiet for long enough.”

Harry shut his mouth and gestured for Malfoy to continue. He flicked his wand, and his cushion became long and plump, so he could lean it against the wall. He adjusted it and leaned back next to Malfoy.

Malfoy eyed Harry's cushion speculatively before copying the transfiguration and continuing. “I was sick to death of being told what to do and where to go. My parents were safe, the threat was gone, and fuck, Potter, I wanted to escape it all. So I did. I bought a townhouse in Sydney before they seized the Malfoy fortune, and I spent nearly eight months sitting inside a dark room, crying my eyes out and trying to work up the courage to turn the green light around instead of blasting holes in my wall.”

Harry sucked in a breath, but said nothing.

Malfoy sighed, draining the rest of his cup of tea before going on. “By the time the wall had changed from white to black, and I'd Confunded at least five Muggle law enforcement officers for following up reports of violent sounds and hysterical crying, I'd decided I needed to try something new.”

He paused and turned to Harry, looking at him in a way that made Harry feel exposed and uneasy. Suddenly, he stood up.

“You want to know why I started singing? I'll show you.” He turned and walked through the door behind them that Harry assumed led to the bedroom.

After a couple of minutes, he returned, holding a very large box. He dumped it on the floor in front of Harry. Harry looked from the box to Malfoy and back again.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It's why I started singing,” Malfoy said smugly.

Harry resisted the urge to punch the smile off Malfoy's stupid face, before leaning forward and opening the box. He frowned. “Blank pieces of paper?”

Malfoy sat down and motioned for him to keep looking. Harry pulled the sheets of paper out and set them aside. Beneath them were smaller boxes and jars, filled with a number of different things he had often seen in Dean's trunk. “Art supplies,” he said, more confused than before.

“Grab a piece of paper, Potter,” Malfoy said lazily.

“Why? No.” Harry shoved the box away, but Malfoy stuck out his hand and stopped him, one eyebrow raised.

“Do you want to hear the rest of the story?” he asked.

The candlelight reflected off his eyes, mesmerizing Harry. It made him feel like he must have crossed some border while he wasn't paying attention, some barrier between worlds, and he was now sitting somewhere far removed from ordinary human consciousness. He had probably crossed it the second he had decided to spend the evening with Draco Malfoy.

Harry grunted something noncommittal and plucked a piece of paper from the top of the pile. “Happy?”

“No. Pick a medium.”

“A what?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Charcoal, chalk pastel, oil pastel, pencil; pick something.”

Mostly to get Malfoy to stop looking at him like that, Harry reached into the box and grabbed a gold chalk pastel.

Malfoy glanced at and snickered. “Figures. Would you like a red one to match?”

Harry opened his mouth to tell Malfoy to fuck off, when he decided that, actually, he did. Wordlessly, he grabbed a crimson red chalk pastel and ignored the look of calm interest on Malfoy's face.

Malfoy nodded approvingly and picked up his guitar. “Now, I'm going to play a song, and you're going to draw.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Malfoy ignored him.

“I'm not going to look at what you're drawing, and I'm not going to ask about it. But I want you to relax, listen to the music, and think about what it is that safety means to you. What is it that makes you feel safe? And then, I want you to draw it.”

Harry felt a cold frisson of fear spike through him. What was Malfoy doing? Was this some ploy to get him to talk about everything? Had Hermione set him up? Did-

“Relax, Potter, your aura is sparking all over the place. When you draw this picture, I will explain to you why I sing. Trust me, the drawing is important. What's your favourite song?”

Harry paused, struggling to keep up with the sudden switch in topic. “Umm, that you've played, or in general?”

Malfoy shrugged. “It's easier if I already know it, but I'll do what I can.”

Harry blinked a couple of times, feeling a blush begin to rise on his neck and face. “I liked that photograph one you played.”

Malfoy nodded, staring thoughtfully at the shadows on the wall opposite them, and began to play.

Harry felt the music wash over him and tried to focus. He just had to put something down on the paper, and then Malfoy would finally tell him why the boy who had tried to kill Dumbledore was suddenly crooning love songs that brought tears to people's eyes. Then Harry could leave and pretend tonight had never happened.

But Malfoy had said to relax, and he could see Harry's aura, so he would know how Harry felt. Surely he would know, then, that Harry was always relaxed? And never relaxed. There was no up, no down, no anger. Nothing that didn't pass in the blink of an eye. Did he want Harry to somehow relax further?

Listen to the music, Malfoy had said. Harry closed his eyes and let the melody wash over him. Malfoy's gentle strumming and soft voice filled the tiny room, the sound falling flat against the brick walls and dropping back down without an echo, so it felt like the world was contained to this tiny room and the two people in it.

Slowly, Harry began to draw: rich, velvet curtains, bright red and gold, around a golden bed. The stone walls were familiar, but larger than any he had seen, and the window took up half the space. He reached into the box for greens and blues, and drew the large expanse of ground far below him that he knew would be waiting for him whenever he felt the need to leave this room with its singular bed and its large, heavy door. Finally, he drew a lock, and the room felt complete.

The notes faded, and the tiny room was silent once again.

Malfoy looked down at his guitar, his fingers running a smooth caress along the body. “When I drew what you just did, the room was empty for a very long time. I couldn't understand why I could feel so calm with nothing around me, until I realised that what was around me simply couldn't be seen.” He looked up at Harry. “It could only be heard.”

Harry marveled anew at how strange it was to be here, sitting on this floor, while the quiet sounds of Hogsmeade night life filtered up from the street below. He shifted involuntarily, and the sound was harsh in the quiet of the room. “I should go,” he said, feeling awkward for the first time that night.

Malfoy smiled. It was a strange smile, all sharp angles hidden in the shadow. “Suit yourself. You know where to find me.”

And with that strange invitation to return, Harry left.

 

~oOo~

 

“You couldn't stay away from me,” Malfoy purred when he opened the door to see Harry standing in the corridor.

Harry knew how he must look – eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep and too many waking nightmares, clothing not properly washed but only spelled clean, which was never the same – but he had the odd sensation that Malfoy didn't care.

Malfoy's eyes flicked to the top of Harry's head, and he gave a long-suffering sigh. “When will you tame that bird's nest?” He stepped back to let Harry in.

“It's kind of low on my list, right now.” Harry sat down on the cushion and waited for Malfoy to sit as well. “I slept the other night,” he said, all in a rush.

Malfoy raised one eyebrow when Harry didn't say anything further. “Would you like a medal? I hear they give those sorts of things out in preschool. I can see what I can dig up, if you like. If you're a really good boy, maybe I'll find a 'first use of the potty' medal, too.”

Despite the acerbic tone, Malfoy's eyes were calm and watchful; he knew what Harry was saying.

“It was the first time I'd slept a full night in-” Harry paused. “Shit, probably four years.”

Malfoy nodded, waving his wand so that the tea set sailed over from the cupboard and began to brew itself. “I found that as well. Even more so once I realised what the room – my safe place – contained.”

“Did you always know how to play guitar?” Harry asked, reaching for the teapot and pouring them both a mug.

Malfoy shook his head. “I learned piano and cello growing up. The guitar was new, but it's not that difficult if you're familiar with scales.”

“You play really well,” Harry admitted, mentally smacking himself for giving Malfoy yet another compliment.

Malfoy grinned, a slight flush on his cheeks. “Yes, I'm rather proud,” he said tightly, covering his mouth by taking a large gulp of tea. “So what brings you back here? I have to say, judging by the state of your eyes, the revelation appears to have been short-lived.”

Harry grimaced. “It was. I only slept properly that one night, and I haven't slept at all since.”

The room looked different in the daylight. It shone through the grubby window in a way that almost felt like it was shining through trees, dappled in the mid-morning sun. Motes of dust caught and swirled lazily in its light, reminding Harry of what he had always thought must be magic before he had discovered what actually was.

But the thing that was most changed in the light was Malfoy. There were no shadows to hide his thoughts this time, and yet, he still seemed a mystery. He was sharp and cutting in a way that no one had a right to be, not with a history like his, and yet, there was an awareness there that Harry had never seen in him before. An awareness of both himself and others – some kind of interest and attention that went beyond the keen search for weakness that had so marked his younger years, and bordered more on... understanding.

And wasn't that just the worst of it? No matter how considerate Ron and Hermione and everyone else had been, and no matter how much their grief mirrored his own, he had never felt this same sense of being seen as he felt right now. If he could draw the way the light in this small room felt – white and clean – it would be this very light that filled the red and gold drawing that he now carried everywhere with him.

He gritted his teeth and looked away, studying the lines and cracks in the brickwork across the room so that he could stop looking at Malfoy and thinking about feeling safe. He knew what it was that had drawn him here, what set Malfoy apart from everyone else; Malfoy was _solid_ in a way that Harry knew he wasn't and had not been in a very long time. Even the Weasleys, even Hermione, no matter how well they carried on day after day, there was still a piece of them missing.

“I want to know where you learned to do that,” Harry said quietly. “Where did you learn to draw things that would help.”

“I learned it in therapy, Potter,” Malfoy said flatly.

Harry was silent, listening to the quiet sounds of Malfoy sipping his tea and twisting the frayed corner of the cushion between his fingers. “I don't want to go to therapy,” he said finally.

Malfoy snorted. “That's because you're a pigheaded idiot.”

“Can't you show me?”

This time, Malfoy laughed out loud. “Potter, I'm not a therapist. I don't know how to heal you. And anyway, why would I help you?”

“Why have you helped me so far?” Harry looked up to see Malfoy eyeing him shrewdly.

Finally, Malfoy set his mug down with a noise of exasperation. “I helped you because I'm grateful to you,” he said, looking disgusted with himself.

Harry blinked. “You're what?”

“You saved the world, you killed the man who destroyed my family, you defended me on trial,” Malfoy said, waving his hand and looking for all the world like a man at his own funeral. “And of course, there was the bloody fire as well. I'm grateful, and I can see that you're fucked, Potter, and you need help.”

Harry winced, looking away, back at the cracks in the brickwork.

“I know you don't want to hear it, but sitting there, between Weasley and Granger, you looked like shattered glass. I'm not saying they're anything to live up to, but they're a damn sight better than you, and you need to do something about it.”

Harry stood up abruptly. “You might be _healed_ ,” he spat. “But you're still a dick.”

“Therapy doesn't change your personality, Potter,” Malfoy said with a sneer, “and you always have brought out the best in me.”

Harry gritted his teeth, refusing to rise to the bait, and slammed the door behind him.

 

~oOo~

 

At first, Harry thought the tapping was just another tree branch scraping along the window; it was cold and windy outside, and it would not have been a surprise to have yet more disruptions from the miserable night. Then he looked up and saw the elegant eagle owl perched on the sill,staring at him with such a disdainful look, he knew it could only have come from one person.

_Potter,_

_Knowing you, you're going to ignore what I tell you and refuse to see a Mind Healer. Since anyone with half a brain can see that you're on the verge of a catastrophic break-down, I am unsurprisingly against this stellar idea of yours._

_Therefore, against my better judgment, I enclose instructions that will assist you in using art to remember and mourn over past trauma - something that I know from personal experience is essential to reconnecting with ordinary life._

_I also enclose my Floo address, in case you have been too idiotic to note my apartment number. In return for this assistance, I require that you contact me_ immediately _should anything go wrong. The last thing I need is to be responsible for killing the fucking Saviour._

_D.M._

Harry read and re-read the instructions several times before the corners of his mouth lifted slowly into a smile. He took the small drawing out of his pocket and looked at it, feeling again the tiny sensation of hope and comfort. If one small picture could do so much, surely more would help.

He untied the package attached to the letter. Brightly coloured paint pots spilled out onto the table, rolling slowly towards the edge. Harry caught them before they fell, and righted them, setting them neatly in a row along the middle of the table. He unwrapped the rest of the package and found some pastels and paint brushes, along with thick sheets of blank paper.

He felt oddly touched, but refused to think into it too deeply. Malfoy was only repaying a debt - he probably didn't like to feel as though he owed Harry anything - that was all.

Harry flicked his wand so that the record player in the corner of the room creaked into position, the dust grinding off under the sudden motion. The first notes of an old punk band Harry had never heard of until he had cleared out Sirius' bedroom began to fill the room.

Harry picked up a dark brown pastel, lowered his head so that he couldn't be distracted by the light filtering in through the blinds, and began to draw.

Malfoy had said to focus on what he could feel but not see - to focus on the sense inside him that was ripped and torn and begging to break free. Harry had re-read the innocent lines several times, baffled and not a little alarmed that Malfoy was able to so easily put into words the sensation that plagued him, threatening to tear through his chest leaving only sinew and broken bones in its wake. He swallowed carefully and tried to drown out everything around him except for the way the music seeped under his skin, filling him up until he could no longer ignore all the leaking holes inside him.

_Draw what's inside._

_Draw what hurts._

The pastel flew across the paper, joined by navy blue and a sharp, jagged green that cut the page into tiny pieces.

Just as suddenly as he had started, he stopped. Hand frozen above the paper, Harry stared down at the mess of colours he had drawn, the warbling sound of Sirius' record falling on deaf ears.

Most of the picture made no sense – a bizarre mass of colours that somehow made Harry's stomach turn when he looked at it. But right in the center was an innocuous archway, black curtains fluttering in the wind.

Long moments passed where Harry was aware only of the sound of his own harsh breathing. Tiny pieces of pastel fell down onto the paper, and Harry realised his hand was shaking, gripping the pastel so tightly it was crumbling. He threw the pastel away and stood up, unable to tear his eyes away from the paper. He knew what that archway meant. He knew what the colours meant.

He turned away; he would go to sleep and pretend this had never happened. There was nothing else he could do. This had been a terrible idea – Malfoy was right. He stopped.

“Malfoy,” he muttered, surprised to hear his voice sounded raw and strained.

Malfoy had insisted that he contact him if something went wrong. Did this count as something going wrong?

Did he really want to be alone right now? He had spent too many nights like that, with these same feelings stirred up inside him of their own volition.

He turned back to the fireplace and threw in a handful of powder.

“Malfoy,” he croaked, sticking his head into the flames. “Malfoy, are you there?”

The response was instant. Malfoy's blond head appeared in front of him, his expression equal parts horror and concern.

“What happened?” Malfoy asked urgently.

“It didn't go well,” Harry admitted, feeling his body shaking anew at the memory. “Can I come through?”

Malfoy stepped back without a word, making space for Harry to step into the room. When Harry was settled on the second cushion in front of the coffee table, Malfoy summoned the teapot and mugs, and began to brew their tea. It was all so familiar that Harry felt some of the tension drain from his body.

Watching Malfoy pour, Harry noticed the tense line of his mouth, and the way his eyes refused to meet Harry's.

“What's wrong?” Harry asked finally.

Malfoy stopped pouring and looked up at him, eyebrow raised incredulously. “What's wrong?” he repeated, his voice quiet but full of barely restrained emotion. “I never should have sent you that owl – that's what's wrong.”

“It's not your fault.” Harry shifted uncomfortably, taking the mug when it was offered to him and blowing gently to cool the liquid down.

Malfoy said nothing.

Harry still felt itchy and unsettled, but it was the first time he had someone here with him during something like this, and he already felt calmer than he ordinarily would.

“We're going to have to resolve it,” Malfoy said finally. “Whatever came to the surface.”

Harry stared at him, his heart skittering around in his chest. “What do you mean?”

Malfoy gave him a rueful smile. “I know you feel like running right now, Potter. But trust me – it's for the best. Don't worry; you don't have to look at what you drew.”

Harry felt some small relief from that, but his hands had already started to shake again. “What do we have to do?”

Malfoy stared at him for long moments before standing suddenly and picking up his guitar. “We'll do it this way instead,” his said, almost to himself. He sat back down, and his fingers began to pluck a gentle melody, almost tuneless. “When you feel ready, stand in the centre of the room.”

Harry clenched his fingers around the mug, feeling the sharp spikes of heat bear into him until he nearly dropped the mug in pain. He set it down on the table and stared at it. Malfoy said nothing, merely continuing to play gently, staring up at the ceiling as if he had nowhere to be and nothing to do.

Slowly, Harry stood and made his way to the centre of the room.

“When you're comfortable, close your eyes.” Malfoy still wasn't watching him.

Harry felt himself tense at the instruction, but the sharp, hollow feeling from before was building again, and he knew it wouldn't be long before he lost control. Any other time, he would curl under the covers of his bed and wait until it left him, hours or days later. He could still do that.

He closed his eyes.

“Very good, Potter.” Malfoy's voice was even quieter than before. “Now focus on the sensation of your breath. You don't need to slow it down – just become aware of it. The way it feels as it goes in, and the way it feels as it goes out.”

Harry felt the panic rising in him, but he squeezed his eyes even tighter shut and tried to focus on his breath. Slowly, he became aware of his stomach expanding and contracting, all on its own, and the coolness of his breath as he drew it in through his nose. He felt the warmth as he breathed out.

“Feel the floor beneath you,” Malfoy continued, the melody slowing along with his voice. “Feel how firm and steady it is, and the weight of your hands by your sides. We're going to walk down ten steps now, in time with my voice. Are you ready, Potter?”

Harry nodded, seeing the flight of steps before him.

“One,” Malfoy began.

Harry stepped onto the first step. He could feel thick carpet beneath his feet.

“Two.”

He took another step, and slowly, with Malfoy's help, Harry walked down the steps and into the room beyond. It was large and full of light, with windows on all sides.

“I'm going to give you a series of four moves. For the first, you're going to slowly unfold your right arm out to your side, leaning your torso with it. Can you try that for me, Potter?”

In the room full of windows, and in Malfoy's apartment, Harry stretched his arm out, his body following on its own. He felt an odd jolt of pleasure when he realised how nicely it fit the melody.

“For the second, you're going to turn your head sharply to the left.”

Harry copied, feeling his head jerk to the subtle rhythm beneath the song.

“Third, roll your head down to the front and up again on the other side.”

The motion dragged along the notes, making Harry feel like he was coasting through a wave or flying.

“Finally,” Malfoy's voice was slower, quieter, now. “I want you to crumple in on yourself, drawing everything tight and close.”

Harry moved, and it was like everything inside him had been crying out for that soft request. He wanted to stay there forever, his arms wrapped around his body as he crouched on legs that felt too shaky to hold him up.

The music became a little louder, and Harry knew he had to stand again.

“Using only those four moves, when you're ready, dance to the music.”

Harry knew that, back in the room with Malfoy, he would be feeling self conscious. He could even feel it a little right now, but it was like he was observing it from a distance. After only a couple of seconds, he decided to let go of the fear and simply do as he was told. He switched back and forth between the moves that Malfoy had given him, feeling his body meet the musicality, stilted and unsure at first, until he became smoother and more free.

And then something changed, and he felt himself drawn more and more to that final move, closing in on himself again and again until his fingers were grasping his arms so tight he could feel them bruise.

The music changed a little, becoming simpler, cycling through only a few notes like a child's music box. Back in the room, he felt Malfoy come to stand in front of him.

“Would you like me to dance with you?” Malfoy's voice was as calm and gentle as it had been since Harry arrived.

Slowly, Harry straightened, his eyes still closed. He nodded slowly, not knowing when or why he had begun to think that was a good idea, but knowing only that he wanted the feel of someone else's hands in his more than anything else in the world. He needed to feel someone holding him.

He felt Malfoy gently take his hands, guiding one to his shoulder and leaving the other clasped in his own. He rested his other hand on Harry's hip, and slowly they began to move. Small steps, back and forth, in time with the music. In the same distant, vague way as before, Harry wondered why he didn't feel dizzy, doing this with his eyes closed, but the movements were so similar in timing to the ones he had made on instinct before, that it didn't feel difficult at all.

Malfoy kept a respectable distance between the two of them, but Harry felt himself stepping closer until Malfoy's arm was able to slide almost completely around his waist, drawing him into a one-armed hug that somehow made the last of his tension fall away.

“We're going to come back up the stairs now,” Malfoy said quietly, and began to count again as Harry slowly climbed the stairs and opened his eyes.

They stared at each other, no longer moving, their hands still clasped together and their bodies close enough to feel each other's breath on their skin. The guitar continued to play in the background, strings plucked by invisible fingers.

“How do you feel?” Malfoy asked, grey eyes intense, and no hint of embarrassment hidden in them.

“Better,” Harry said, hearing the surprise in his own voice. His hands were still on Malfoy, and he didn't want to step away.

“It's easy to unknowingly build a distance between yourself and your body.” Malfoy's thumb on his waist was tracing slow, comforting circles, and he had brought his other hand – still joined with Harry's – down to their sides, fingers entwined together. “Particularly if you have an understandable aversion to being touched,” his eyes flicked to Harry's scar, “or a history of childhood neglect.”

Harry's mind jumped, unbidden, to memories from long ago, and, more recently, the first hug he could remember – long after he had come to Hogwarts. His brow furrowed, and he felt his stomach flip at the thought of Malfoy seeing all of this without him having to say a word – of Malfoy somehow knowing the awful things that he kept hidden.

“It's alright, Potter,” Malfoy said softly. “You look like you've seen a ghost. I'm not in your head – I wouldn't do that to you.”

“You know a lot about me, now,” Harry said drily, his fingers tracing the line of Malfoy's collar. It had a fine trail of leaves embroidered in gold thread, but you couldn't see it unless you were up close.

Malfoy's hand was still resting against the small of his back, and the whole situation was surreal enough for Harry to admit to himself that he could remember few times where anything had been more comforting. He felt like a festering wound had been lanced and he had opened his eyes to crisp, clean bedsheets and a warm embrace.

“Would it help if I traded you another admission of my own?” Malfoy asked with a smirk, the expression returning a semblance of normalcy to the room.

“Yes,” Harry said decisively, meaning to take a step backward but finding he couldn't, not yet.

Malfoy pulled a face, making a show of considering his options. “My first break-through was when I was able to draw my protector,” he said lightly, an odd expression on his face. His eyes met Harry's, and Harry was astonished at the intensity he saw there. “It's like a symbol of safety. Once I was able to draw them into my sessions, my progress increased tenfold.” He gave a rueful smile, and it was such a _human_ look on him that Harry felt his stomach flip over in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

His eyes fell to Malfoy's lips. It was only for a second, but as he flicked them back up to meet Malfoy's own, he saw them widen in surprise. He had no idea who moved first, but the realisation that he was about to kiss Draco Malfoy hit him a second before their lips pressed together, soft and warm and hesitant in the quiet room, the guitar having stopped playing long ago.

He felt Malfoy's breathing hitch, his lips parting in a gasp, and then Harry's own mouth was opening, and their tongues were moving together, unexpectedly minty and sweet all at once. He moaned softly, feeling Malfoy pull him closer, the steadying hand on his back now gripping him urgently. He twisted his own hands into Malfoy's shirt, sending the pretty collar skewed across Malfoy's chest as he pulled him down towards him.

Suddenly Malfoy stiffened and pushed back, looking down at him with a flash of fear. “No,” he hissed, shoving back entirely. “No, Potter,” he said, firmer now, though his eyes were full of longing. “We can't.”

“Why not?” Harry asked, confused but unwilling to cross the space between them when Malfoy so clearly wanted it there.

“We just can't,” Malfoy spat, his face contorting into a sneer as he turned away.

Harry froze, the warmth that had filled him beginning to drain away.

Malfoy turned back, his expression unreadable. “I don't mean it badly, Potter,” he said, his voice sounding tired. “I can't explain. And I'm glad tonight went well for you – really, I am. Do you still feel better?”

 _Not anymore,_ Harry thought bitterly.

But really, he did. Even with this new confusion and discomfort, he felt far better than he had in a long time. He supposed he had Malfoy to thank for that.

“I do,” he said slowly, trying and failing to figure out what Malfoy was thinking. “Thanks.” He walked stiffly to the fireplace, unsure of his welcome.

Malfoy watched him and remained silent, his brow slightly furrowed. “Floo me if you need me,” he said quietly.

Harry nodded, picked up a pinch of the powder and stepped into the fireplace.

 

~oOo~

 

Hermione's eyebrows shot up when she opened the door to see Harry on her front step.

“Hi!” she said, unable to keep from smiling. She stepped back quickly, waving him inside with poorly concealed excitement. “You didn't tell me you were coming.”

She shut the door behind Harry and looked him over, pulling him into a hug when she had finished her assessment. “You look well.”

“I'm alright,” Harry said cautiously. “I was wondering if you wanted to go to The Young Boar for dinner?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

Hermione blinked in surprise, but nodded. “You never told me how it went with Malfoy the other night,” she said, leading him down the hall.

Harry shrugged. “We talked. He's still a bit of a git, but he sings well.”

“You sound impressed.”

“It's impressive.”

Harry knew he was being deliberately obtuse, but he had no idea how to talk about what had happened between him and Malfoy. In the light of day, the whole thing felt like a dream, and yet, he couldn't forget the memory of Malfoy's lips on his. And while nothing much had changed since that night – he still felt raw and stretched, and nothing could stop the nightmares from haunting him at all hours of the day and night – he also felt something new, something faint but warm, hidden deep inside.

Hermione called for Ron, who utterly failed at hiding his surprise to see Harry, and they quickly readied themselves and left for The Young Boar.

The place was quieter than usual, full of couples gazing at each other over dripping candles and warm drinks. When Malfoy came on stage, almost no one looked up except for Harry. He began to sing – new songs this time, but with a slow, gentle rhythm to them that made Harry think of their dance together. He felt his face grow flushed, and hoped Hermione and Ron weren't looking at him.

For his last song, Malfoy sang once more of fire, and Harry couldn't help but close his eyes as the words washed over him.

_If this is to end in fire_

_Then we should all burn together_

_Watch the flames climb high into the night_

He wasn't sure that this new fixation was healthy - he wasn't even sure it was new, it felt so familiar - but it was undoubtedly the first and only thing that had made him feel anything beyond the vast, grey nothing that was punctuated only by remembered fear.

But when their eyes met over the fading notes of the final song, Harry knew without a doubt that Malfoy didn't want Harry to follow him tonight. So he sat back in his seat, enduring Ron and Hermione's confused glances and gripping the fabric of his jeans so tightly that his nails began to hurt.

When he came home, his eyes fell on the art supplies, and without stopping to think about the repercussions, he locked the doors and began to draw.

 

~oOo~

 

“I don't think it's meant to feel like this,” Harry said aloud to the empty room, his voice sounding raw and harsh, as if he had been screaming for hours.

For days, he had done little else but draw. He ran his hand along the pile of papers in front of him, sifting them so that they spread in a wide, messy arc on the floor around him. Mixes of dark colours, shapes, and abstract nightmares covered the pages, and he knew that the next step was to resolve them – to remember and mourn and work through whatever loss and trauma they represented. Malfoy had told him this, had written it down so that Harry couldn't forget the most important part.

But Harry didn't know how. It was all so bleak and overwhelming, and he couldn't see a way through.

He closed his eyes and apparated away.

Malfoy's face held a wary sort of resignation as he opened the door. Without a word, he waved the teapot and mugs onto the table, and Harry wondered if this was going to be their routine.

“I don't want to dance again,” Harry said without thinking.

“No?” Malfoy said, raising one eyebrow. “How devastating for me. I was just thinking about how much I wished my toes could be mangled today.”

Harry shot him a glare, which Malfoy returned by way of flipping him the finger, and they sat down together to drink their tea. After a long silence, Malfoy pulled his guitar over and began to pluck a gentle tune.

“Is this going to be a weekly thing, now?” he asked with a long-suffering sigh that Harry didn't believe for a second.

“Who knows?” Harry replied, staring blankly at the coffee table. “You didn't want me to come up the other night.” It was a statement, not a question.

Malfoy shrugged, continuing to play. “I had reservations.” The admission was light – a simple statement of fact.

“Like what?”

“Does it matter?”

Harry closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the wall behind him. “You know,” he said, still with his eyes closed. “I almost think I can do that resolution thing right now, with you playing like that.”

“Then do it.”

Paper and pencils appeared in front of Harry, and he drew them toward him without another word. He didn't need the other drawings in front of him; the memory of them was burned into his mind, and all he had to do now was find a way to counter them.

He began to draw different colours and shapes, but nothing felt right. It needed to be something tangible, something real. He cast them aside and stared up at Malfoy helplessly.

“It's not working.” His voice sounded dull and flat, and the warm feeling inside him was very far away.

“Give it time.”

“Do you plan on saying more than three words at once, tonight?”

Malfoy stopped playing and glared at him. “You're welcome to piss off whenever you like, Potter,” he snapped. “You're the one who keeps dropping by my flat whenever you're on the verge of a break-down. Go annoy someone else if I'm not quite up to your standards.”

“I don't want to annoy anyone else,” Harry spat back, his face turning petulant despite his best efforts.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Merlin save me from entitled Saviors,” he said, his voice full of venom.

The indignant huff escaped Harry's lips before he could help himself. “A normal person would take it as a compliment.” He stood up, Malfoy following closely behind him. “You're the only person I feel comfortable being around at the moment, but sure, go ahead and turn that into something negative. You're good at that.”

The pot of Floo powder wobbled as he knocked into it, trying to quickly grab a handful, but succeeding only in dropping it onto the floor where it shattered in a puff of sparkling, green dust.

“Are you actually listening to yourself, Potter?” Malfoy drawled, stepping over the broken shards and smirking at Harry. “You're making as much sense as Lovegood. And now you're destroying my very few possessions. Well done.”

Harry made a frustrated sound, and before he could help himself, he'd shoved Malfoy backward. Malfoy stumbled and caught onto Harry's arm, stopping himself from falling and staring at Harry in wide-eyed indignation. “And you wonder why I have reservations about our _friendship_ ,” he spat after a long silence.

Harry glared at him. “Come off it. You're just scared.”

Malfoy raised one eyebrow before leaning in very close to Harry, his eyes glittering with anger. “Scared? As if you could scare me – you wouldn't even know what to do with me if you had me.”

Harry felt his heart thudding in his chest as they stared at each other, his blood boiling at the challenge in Malfoy's words. Before he could take them back, Harry grabbed Malfoy by the collar and pulled him close, kissing him fiercely.

He had expected a second or two of resistance, but it was as if Malfoy had been waiting for that moment. He shoved Harry up against the door and began tugging at Harry's shirt, breaking away for just long enough to pull it up and over his head. Harry gasped as his back hit the cold metal of the door handle, and Malfoy smirked against his mouth, his lips curving up into an arrogant challenge as he ran his hands slowly up Harry's sides and along his chest.

Malfoy's hands were steady, but as Harry ran his own hands lower, along Malfoy's neck and collarbone, and lower still to his chest, he could feel Malfoy's heart beating rapidly beneath his skin. Harry's breathing hitched, and he found himself moving without thinking to mouth at Malfoy's neck, tracing the curves with his tongue until Malfoy's breathing became ragged and harsh.

Harry dropped his hands to the front of Malfoy's trousers, pausing at the fastenings and smiling against Malfoy's skin when he felt him stiffen and hold his breath. One by one, he popped open the catches and slid his hand inside, running his fingers over Malfoy's hard length until Malfoy finally – _finally –_ threw away his composure, moaning and pressing against Harry's hand.

It didn't take long until Harry's hands were slick and wet, gliding along Malfoy's cock while Malfoy gasped, low and rough, in his ear.

“You look so good like this,” Harry murmured, unable to help himself.

He reached up with his other hand, placing his palm on Malfoy's neck and running his fingers through hair that was soft and slightly damp from sweat.

Malfoy made an unintelligible noise in response, dropping his head down to Harry's shoulder and running his teeth along the curve of Harry's neck, making him shiver. His hands slid to Harry's front, palming him through the fabric.

Harry gasped and pushed forward, rutting against Malfoy's touch. Suddenly, Malfoy groaned and stiffened, and Harry felt him spill over into his hand. Before Harry had time to realise what was happening, Malfoy had dropped to his knees and was pulling Harry's pants down to his thighs, wrapping his fingers around Harry and taking him into his mouth.

Harry's head dropped back against the door with a loud thunk, and he willed himself to stay standing while Malfoy licked and sucked slowly along him. It was over far too quickly. Malfoy gave a low hum of approval as Harry stuttered and cried out, gripping Malfoy's hair and fighting not to thrust into Malfoy's warmth mouth.

When his breathing was back under control, Harry stood for long seconds, his eyes closed as he leaned back against the door, holding his pants up with one hand but lacking the energy to fasten them closed. He heard Malfoy shift backward, falling the last few centimeters onto the floor.

He finally opened his eyes to see Malfoy crouched forward and staring distantly at the far wall, his face a strange mixture of dread and longing. Harry immediately felt like a bucket of water had been poured over him, and he scrambled for his shirt, throwing it back on and avoiding Malfoy's eyes.

“Are you-” he began.

“I'm fine,” Malfoy spat.

Malfoy accio'd Harry's drawings and handed them to him without looking at them.

“I should go,” Harry said uncertainly.

Malfoy didn't say anything.

 

~oOo~

 

Harry couldn't sleep. Whether it was from the fear of what the darkness would bring, with all those terrors newly brought to the surface, or the memory of how warm and soft Malfoy's mouth could be, he didn't know or care.

He threw back the bed-covers and padded into the living room, grabbing his half-finished drawings and arranging them in front of him. He layered them so that they were on top of the ones he had made earlier, on his own.

Taking a deep breath, he willed himself to stop being afraid that it wouldn't work, that it was all hopeless, and began to draw.

Slowly, shapes began to take form: figures reaching across the expanses of darkness on the pages behind; words whispered between friends and family; mourning and grief, open and shared against an expanse of bright morning sun; and beautiful faces – faces he didn't know he could draw – in memory of all who were lost.

The raw feeling was still inside him, but its roots were weakened now, faint and shadowy where before they had been steel driven straight through his chest.

It wasn't everything, but it was a start.

 

~oOo~

 

When the morning sun began to filter through his curtains, he felt the first waves of sleepiness hit him. It was different to his usual exhaustion – it felt cleaner, gentler. But before he could succumb to it, there was something he had to do.

He ran a hand through his hair, tidying it as best he could, and stepped into the fireplace.

“Malfoy?” he called quietly, knowing that he was intruding but hoping it would be forgiven. He walked across the room and knocked gently on the bedroom door. “Can I talk to you?”

There was a muffled sound of confusion, and then the door cracked open a sliver to reveal Malfoy's soft-lidded, grey eyes.

“Potter?” he murmured, his breath minty and fresh despite the early hour. “What's wrong?”

“I need to talk to you; I won't be long.” Harry stepped back to let Malfoy into the room, trying not to look at the way Malfoy's lean body caught the light of the early morning sun – he slept shirtless, with black silk pajama bottoms that Harry had an overwhelming urge to slide between his fingers.

Malfoy shut the bedroom door behind him, staring at Harry suspiciously.

Harry took a deep breath. “I know why you don't want to do this with me,” he said, speaking quickly as Malfoy opened his mouth to interject. “There's a lot of history between us, and I'm not... I'm not well. It probably feels like I want you around as a crutch, and that you'll get all caught up in this mess that I'm in and we'll just fall apart at the end. I get that.”

Malfoy shut his mouth, his eyes revealing the truth of Harry's words. Harry forced himself to maintain eye-contact, to not look away from that steady gaze, even though he wanted desperately to escape and address his words to something easier, like the wispy clouds he could see through the window.

“But I just wanted you to know that's not why I want you. You're right – I need to see a professional, and I'm going to do that. It's just that, I know-” he paused, running a hand through his hair and wishing there was some way to let Malfoy know his feelings without having to say them out loud. “I know that when I do that, when I work through everything and clear away all the mud and murky waters, you're the pure thing that's left.” He laughed, his incredulity obvious. “I don't know when or how that happened. I think it would take years to dissect, but I know it's true. You're what I want after it all. I just want to know if you'll be there at the end.”

Malfoy stared at him, all trace of sleep banished from his gaze. He looked almost stricken in disbelief, a small flush rising along his neck as his eyes bore into Harry's, searching for the truth. He cleared his throat.

“It's not-” he began, uncharacteristically inarticulate. “It's not that I thought you were ill-intentioned.” His eyes shifted to somewhere over Harry's shoulder. “It's that-” he choked slightly on the words, before abruptly turning and flinging open the door to his bedroom.

Eyes wide, Harry followed him inside and barely managed to catch the sketchbook that was thrust at him.

“A certain theme began to emerge, in a number of my drawings,” Malfoy hedged, still refusing to meet Harry's eyes. “When I drew my protector.” His voice was quiet.

Harry's stomach flipped, and he opened the sketchbook cautiously. He was met with page after page of drawings, each furiously scribbled out, or scratched and torn, until finally it seemed that Malfoy had accepted them, the strokes of his paintbrush softening to create a misty figure with deep, green eyes and messy black hair.

Harry looked up, lost for words as Malfoy stared hopelessly back, and he realised suddenly just how much this thing between them meant for Malfoy. The thudding of his own heart destroyed any last shred of a pretense that it didn't mean the same to him.

Harry set the sketchbook down on the dresser and stepped closer to Malfoy, bringing his hand up to run it lightly along the back of Malfoy's neck, and tangling his fingers through sleep-tousled hair.

“When I draw my safe place,” Harry said quietly, thinking of the first drawing he had made, and how it made him feel every time he looked at it, “it looks like it's empty of you, but you're the light that fills the room.”

Malfoy smiled hesitantly before reaching out to rest his hands on Harry's waist. “When did we both become so poetic?” he asked drily, the flush on his cheeks belying the cynicism in his tone.

Harry snorted, grinning up at him. “It's the sleep-deprivation,” he said in a serious tone. “Don't worry, we'll be snarking at each other again in the morning.”

“It is morning,” Malfoy said flatly, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

Harry shrugged. “Afternoon then. Is that bed available? Because I'm wrecked.”

Malfoy huffed an unexpected laugh, but crossed the room and pulled back the sheets. “Luckily for you, I'm willing to share.”

Finally, with the morning sun shining softly down onto the crisp, white sheets, and feeling like it was the first time he had truly done so in years, Harry fell asleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) I'm not an art therapist. I think I'd kind of like to be, which is why art therapy made it into this fic so prominently, but the fact remains that I'm not, so it will be readily apparent to anyone who knows what they're talking about that I don't... Sorry.
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you liked it. I feel like this prompt could have done with being a bit longer, but I opted for posting instead of dragging it out forever when I might not have time.
> 
> If you liked it, please [reblog! ](http://agentmoppet.tumblr.com/post/148878223468/white-sheets-in-the-morning-sun-agentmoppet)


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